The Ninth Wave (33 page)

The other three boys stood rigid. When they looked at Georgia their
faces came undone; went limp and ragged, sagging with excitement.
It was getting dark along the beach and occasionally a car turned on its
lights and the faint yellow column of light swung out over the beach. It
was still light enough, however, to see the boys.
Mike looked down at Georgia. He could not see her face clearly, but he
sensed that she could see him.
"O.K., mister. Just git goin'. Start skinnin' down. Take your clothes
off," the boy said. "Then you can help the girl with hers."
"Boy, I'm not going to take my clothes off," Mike said slowly. "The girl
isn't going to take her clothes off. There's not going to be a show
this afternoon."
The boy looked startled and then puzzled. His face twisted and he looked
quickly at the other boys. Then he took out a set of brass knuckles and
slowly put them on. He grinned at Mike.
"You a bully, eh? A tough egg," he said softly, with pleasure. "You like
to kick people round. Maybe we'll kick you around. Ever see a man worked
over with little baseball bats and brass knucks? It's not nice, mister.
Now you just start skinnin' down."
"You'd better come after me," Mike said. "I'm not skinning down. Neither
is the girl."
He looked down at Georgia. She picked up the thermos bottle and stood
up. She held the bottle like a club.
"We'll fight them, Mike," she said in a distinct voice.
The boys looked at one another. The boy in the yellow jacket grinned.
"No. You start up the path," Mike said. He turned to the circle of
boys. "All right. Come on in. You were doing the big talking. Why don't
you come on in? There's just one guy and a girl. That's all. Nothing
to be afraid of."
The semicircle tightened around them. The boys no longer looked young
and somewhat overdressed. They crouched forward and in the twilight
they looked huge and dark, menacing. Their faces were twisted with
excitement. The boy in the flannel jacket took two steps forward, his
hand carefully cocked, the brass knuckles gleaming.
Mike's mind slowed down, he watched the boys carefully. Precisely
he remembered what the Marine at Nouméa had told him. about
in-fighting. "There's no man on the face of the earth who can stand a
kick in the nuts. An Eskimo, a Russian, a Texan or an African will stop
everything and grab their nuts if they get a good kick. It's the first
law of in-fighting."
He watched the boys creep in. The two baseball bats were yellow in the
half-light and they swung in easy arcs at about shoulder height.
"Me first," the boy in the yellow jacket said. "Let me clip 'im one
first. Dirty son of a bitch. Big-mouth bastard. Let me have 'im first."
Georgia threw the thermos bottle at the boy. He put his hands up and the
bottle bounced away. For a moment the boy stood straight and unprotected.
Mike aimed and kicked the boy in the groin. His toe hit cartilage and
bone and something very soft. The boy screamed sharply. His hands shot
out in front of him, fingers widespread and grasping. Then delicately
they moved down toward his groin. Mike caught the hand with the brass
knuckles in mid-air, twisted it sideways. The boy's free hand grabbed
his groin, but Mike had his other hand behind his back.
In the dim light the other boys stumbled forward.
"Just a second," Mike said. "I've got his hand behind his back. The one
with the brass knuckles. You take another step forward and I'm going to
break one of his fingers backward over the knuckles. Before you can get
me I'll break every god damned finger on his hand."
The boy in the yellow jacket was still blubbering, but the pain had
eased enough so that he could hear Mike.
"I'm ruined," he said shrilly. "Get me to a hospital. That's what I
need. Christ, I'm ruined. He kicked my nuts off. I can feel one of
'em hanging down my leg."
The boys hesitated. Mike held the boy's hand so that they could see
it. He bent the middle finger backward over the knuckle and the boy
screamed again. But he did not take his other hand away from his groin.
"All right," Mike said. "We'll just walk up to the highway together. The
three of you first. Me and your buddy second. The girl last. Just throw
your baseball bats on the sand. Right now."
They hesitated and Mike pulled on the boy's finger. The scream sounded
out above the waves, louder than the whir of tires along the highway. The
boys threw their bats down and started up the side of the rock.
Mike picked up one of the bats, then pushed the boy ahead of him up
the path. When they came out on the highway the night was sliced by the
swift passage of car headlights in the blackness.
Mike let go of the boy. The boy put both of his hands to his groin. He
held himself tenderly and from between his fingers black drops fell. His
eyes were wide with terror.
The other boys took him by the elbows and led him to their car. It was
a cut-down, powerful car with chrome exhaust pipes sticking from the
hood. They eased the boy into the back seat and he screamed as he sat
down. The car shot out onto the highway with a roar.
Mike turned to Georgia. They walked over and got in Mike's car.
Georgia sat forward on the seat with her arms around her knees. Mike
started the car.
"Don't go home, please, Mike," she said. "Drive up the highway. Up toward
Santa Barbara."
Mike drove slowly out onto the highway. He drove past Cliff Rock, past
Malibu Beach and then picked up speed when they came to the divided
highway. They came to Point Mugu and the highway swung inland. Across the
dun-colored salt grass and sand dunes the superstructure of the ships
at Port Hueneme broke the last light with a spidery precision. They
went through Oxnard and Ventura and they came out on the great swooping
highway that follows the curves of the shore. Salt spray blew across the
highway. Below Carpinteria the highway went up abruptly like an arrow,
and they came out on the plateau above the ocean. The smell of oranges
was strong.
"Can we stop and eat something?" Georgia said. "I'm hungry."
Mike stopped at a seafood restaurant and they had abalone steak. He
ordered a bottle of red wine and they were both thirsty. They drank the
bottle and ordered another one. When they were finished they drove on
toward Santa Barbara. When they passed the first motel on the outskirts
of Santa Barbara Georgia looked up.
"Let's stop at a motel," she said. "I don't want to go home tonight."
Mike stopped at a motel that backed up to the ocean. He registered and
then drove the car down to one of the neat little cottages. When they
went in, Georgia turned on the lights and leaned against the bureau. She
turned and looked at Mike. Her eyes were very bright and frightened.
"Mike, there are millions of people like those boys, aren't there?" she
said. She gestured and took in the world outside the neat motel room. "I
never saw them before, but I know that there are millions of them
out there."
"Sure. Millions."
"And we're separated from them by just a thin little boundary that anyone
can walk across. A few policemen and some laws. That's all the boundary
there is. They can walk across anytime they want to." Her eyes were
focused rigidly on the wall. "Why don't they just get organized and take
over? What holds them back? They could just come walking in anyplace,
with their little baseball bats swinging from their wrists. Into homes
and schools . . . and everyplace."
"Because they're scared, Georgia," Mike said and his voice was tired.
"Because they're scared and because there are guys like me around that
know that they're scared. I'm one of 'em, Georgia. I know what they want
and why they want it. There are millions of them, you're right. All mad,
frustrated, petulant, whining, ugly."
"I never saw them before," Georgia said.
"No. Of course you never saw them before," Mike said. "All you saw
was your father and Morrie. They think they're tough and practical,
but they're only tough and practical when they're dealing with their
own sort. They don't know about those others out there. They don't know
that those millions are waiting for some sort of instruction on how to
act. And because they don't get instructions, because no one tells them,
they act the way they feel. Which is tough and mean. So someone has to
tell them how to act; someone has to give instructions and say that you
act like so and so and such and such. Morrie can't do it. Your father
can't do it. I can't do it. But I can give orders to someone who can. I
can tell Cromwell and he can tell them."
"Let's go outside," she said. "Maybe we can walk along the beach."
They went down a steep wooden stairway and came out on the beach. They
took off their shoes and left them on the bottom step. The sand was still
warm. They walked by a large hotel and the sound of music came from the
open windows.
Once Georgia left him and walked down and stood in the shallow water. Then
she came back and they continued down the beach. In the deep sand her
coltish, almost crippled gait was emphasized.
They went past the hotel and came to a small oval stretch of sand. Georgia
sat down. Mike sat down beside her.
Faintly, like an exudation, the cooling ocean gave off the smell of
petroleum. It was the thin passing debris left on the surface by the
day's passage of tankers.
A faint light came from the sea; a sort of bluish loom that deepened
as each wave broke and then receded. The light was good only for close
vision, but Mike could see Georgia's features and her fingers clasped
around her knees. The light was adequate only for that. If he moved his
head back only slightly she blurred and became indistinct.
She lifted her head. In the blue, faint, oceanic light her eyes were
invisible except for splinters of light that reflected from the big bony
eye sockets. Her head moved and he knew she was looking at him. Her lips
parted to talk and then came together silently.
He noticed that his fingertips were trembling against his pants.
"Mike, you're so . . . " she said and paused, her lips open, trying for
the correct words. "You're like one of those little glass balls that has
artificial snow and a winter scene inside of it. You shake it and the snow
swirls around the scene. Except that all one sees of you is the swirling,
the snow. All the things are there inside, but I can't get a fingernail
into the glass to pry it open. It's all smooth and tough." She licked
her lips. "And you don't want anyone inside. You'd fight it; you'd keep
them out." Her voice faltered and Mike felt that she was almost crying.
Mike leaned forward and kissed her. At first he was only aware that there
were a few grains of sand caught on her lips. The tiny pieces of sand
worked between their lips, like nuclei of irritation. And then from the
grains of sand a sensation of raptness went through Mike. He stiffened
and was caught in an experience he had never. known.
He pushed Georgia back on the sand. He put his hand on her belly and
it was round and firm. It felt incredibly feminine. Her mouth opened
slightly and he could feel her breath against his tongue.
Dimly, he was aware that her breathing was the rhythm of the ocean;
identical with the rise and fall of the waves. He felt caught between the
two rhythms; one pressing against his eardrums and the other communicated
through his lips. He felt incapable of moving, caught in a luxury of
immobility and, on some deep and hidden level, afraid that if he moved
he would end it.
Georgia pulled her lips away and sat up. She clasped her knees. Mike
felt a huge despair; he was certain that she would deny him.
"Not like this, Mike," she said. "I'll take my clothes off."
He felt a slow surge of relief. She stood up and in the darkness he
heard the soft gnash of a zipper, the hissing of cloth over flesh.
When she knelt down beside him he could, in the bluish loom, make out
her naked breasts and the swelling of her shoulders. He kissed her on
the neck and then ran his hands over her breasts. She breathed into his
hair. When he rolled over on top of her, her arms went around him and
her hands locked over the small of his neck.
"Mike, I'm not sure of anything," she whispered. "Nothing . . . not
anymore. Except one thing . . . I want all of you in me. Not part of you,
but the whole man . . .lonely . . . person."
She sighed and seemed to fall away from him.
CHAPTER 20
"A Low But Certain Ground"
Two days later Georgia came to Mike's office.
"You told me you'd tell me about politics today," she said. "Remember?"
"Sure," he said. But he had not and he made no effort to pretend. He grinned
at her and then got up from his desk. "Let's go upstairs. That's where the
politics takes place."
They took the elevator and went up three floors. They walked down the
hall and entered a room with "Computation Room" on the door.
The room was large and bare. In one corner was a table with a Pyrex
coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, a box of sugar cubes and a can of
condensed milk. Along the other wall was a long low machine. It had a
smooth glistening top, thirteen metal pockets and a number of counters
on it. The letters I.B.M. appeared on a metal crest. The machine was
well rubbed and it hummed. Bedside it, on a metal table, were several
boxes of cards.
A woman was leaning against the machine, She had the taut, wiry, nervous
body of a marathon runner. A cigarette hung from her lower lip. She wore
a cheap rabbit-hair sweater. Her breasts were sharp and small and she
looked very confident. She looked at them through the cigarette smoke
that swirled past her eyes.
Without looking at the machine, the woman pressed a button. The humming
rose in pitch; took on an eager sound. The woman touched a lever and
instantly a stack of cards began to feed from a hopper into the machine.
The cards were snapped flat, caught between some rubber belts and flicked
into one or another of the thirteen pockets. The stack of cards in the
hopper jiggled downward. The pockets, each one balanced on springs,
moved downward under the weight of the cards. The cards shot into
the metal pockets with a sharp snip of sound that was repeated with
incredible speed.
The part of the woman's mouth that was holding the cigarette was half
open, caught in a smile of pleasure. Her fingers rested lightly on
the machine.